


white-out / re-colorize

by deplore



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS
Genre: Dissociation, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 10:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14133861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deplore/pseuds/deplore
Summary: Yusaku has a nightmare — again, a voice calls for him.He jerks upright suddenly, breathing hard; it takes a few seconds before he can actually see properly. Between gasps, he automatically thinks of three things, as he’s conditioned himself to do over the years, to slow down his mind and keep his panic from escalating –Who am I? I’m Fujiki Yusaku.How old am I? I’m sixteen years old.Where was I last?He has to think about the last question for a while, but he finally remembers:Kogami Ryoken’s house on Stardust Road.





	white-out / re-colorize

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware this fic contains a **flashback to the Lost Incident in a nightmare** and depicts some level of **dissociation** (not explicitly named as such within the fic) as a defense mechanism.

– and no matter where he looks, everything is a florescent white around him. It is hard to discern where the edges and corners of the room are; sound, as well, travels strangely through the atmosphere. One of the walls has numbers displayed on them, the only part of the room that seems to have color in it besides himself. He cannot discern what the numbers mean, but he observes that every few minutes, one of the numbers changes, counting down slowly.

Counting down to what? To something good or something bad? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t –

Something feels wrong, as if the walls are closing in on him. When he glances around, though, he can’t see anything that would affirm the faint sense of dread slowly spreading throughout his body. He looks down at his hands but he is uncertain whether they are actually his or not.

His hands are so small. He is wearing boots but they don’t quite fit right, and his coat – well, he’s a little cold, just a little cold. Everything is outlined in soft pastel shades but his heart is beating sharply in his ribcage.

The number goes down by one digit again. Everything is so numbingly white that it feels hard to breathe. Even though he hasn’t moved, he is becoming lost. _Where am I?_ he thinks.

No, but there’s a more important question to ponder first.

_Who am I?_

Something is descending from above. The shape of the object looks artificial, but he is hesitant to conclude that there are other people around simply because of that. Perhaps he is the last person in the world. At any rate, he is the only person in this room.

_Why?_

Does he mean to ask why is this happening? No,

_Why am I…?_

But that question is too large for such a small human being. It rips out from his soul and tears out of his skin, counteracting the strange, claustrophobic pressure the room exerts on him for a few moments, until he releases the question from his body. He reaches out to touch that artificial-looking object and finds that he cannot let it go. It leeches onto him like a parasite and it hurts everywhere that it touches, in jolts and in tears; it crawls up his arm and melds with his face. He can still see but his head is heavy and his mind, it feels wrong, there are echoes ringing through his head even though there are no sounds except the ones he makes. He can’t move properly anymore but he is safer lying on the ground; he still can’t make out where the walls begin, but at least he can confirm the floor is still underneath him.

The number goes down again.

He registers an indescribable sensation where the whiteness touches him, and the whiteness is everywhere it is everything it is, it is, it is not, not what it is but who is it who am I? why is this why am I, it hurts, his entire world is only this room but it is collapsing it is imploding it is self-destructing. He can’t see, it hurts too much to open his eyes now, even without vision, all that exists is an engulfing white swallowing him from the outside inwards, consuming his emotions his memories his attachments his identity until ah, there is nothing inside of him anymore, there is nothing, nothing, there is nothing left of him…

_… you…_

No, there is something. There is somebody outside.

_Hey, you…_

Somebody’s voice echoes.

_Think of three things._

Somebody is calling to him. Their voice is beautiful, angelic in the way that it descends from heights unseen, cutting through the stagnant air.

 _By thinking_ …

Maybe he’s imagining the voice. He is probably imagining it. There’s nothing left for him to burn away but his sanity.

 _… you can still live_.

He doesn’t know if he wants that. He doesn't know if he desires that anymore, though he thinks he once fervently did, back when the numbers on the wall all read the digit nine – it’s hard to remember. Perhaps instead he will let the whiteness overwhelm him and everything he is. If it takes away all of his pain the way that it took everything else from him, if it eats up all of the difficult concepts then perhaps he will give into it and stop struggling against the questions echoing in his hollow vessel, why am I? Why is this happening? Who am I?

_…saku…_

Then there’s a pressure on his shoulder and suddenly he thinks, _the voice is real_. The voice must be real; he doesn’t have any proof of it, but he believes in that fact with all the conviction left in him. It’s only a very small conviction but small like a seed that might someday grow large if somebody cares for it. And if the voice is real, then he is still real too –

_Yusaku!_

– he musters all his strength and reaches past the void to open his eyes –  

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He jerks upright suddenly, breathing hard; it takes a few seconds before he can actually see properly. Between gasps, he automatically thinks of three things, as he’s conditioned himself to do over the years, to slow down his mind and keep his panic from escalating –

_Who am I? I’m Fujiki Yusaku._

_How old am I? I’m sixteen years old._

_Where was I last?_

He has to think about the last question for a while, but he finally remembers: _Kogami Ryoken’s house on Stardust Road_.

By the time that he’s run through those three facts, his vision has cleared and his breathing has slowed down. It’s only then that Yusaku notices that he has somebody’s wrist in a vise grip; he registers white hair and blue eyes before a name clicks. “Ryoken,” he mutters, and slowly lets go, relaxing one finger at a time so that Ryoken can pry his arm free.

“You were having a nightmare,” Ryoken replies, hesitating for a moment before adding, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to shake you awake, but you weren’t responding when I called your name.”

“No, that’s fine,” Yusaku says. He looks around as he continues to resituate himself – both of them are in Ryoken’s study, his laptop is open but asleep on a nearby desk. He’s currently half-lying on a sofa; he recalls that Ryoken mentioned once he moved it into his study for when he wanted to take quick naps. Ryoken is kneeling in front of the sofa, staring at him with obvious concern in his gaze.

“Is there anything that I can do for you?” Ryoken asks.

 _It’s that voice_ , Yusaku thinks. It’s obviously not exactly the same as ten years ago; both of them have grown up and Ryoken’s voice has deepened, but some things haven’t changed. The cadence and lilt to his tone is still the same – even now, he can hear traces of that eight-year-old boy in the way that Ryoken speaks. And just as that mysterious voice soothed and saved him as a child, Yusaku is calmed listening to him now, even as his mind remains muddled and the mere act of existing feels a bit malformed around the edges.

“Just keep talking with me,” Yusaku replies, slumping back down and closing his eyes temporarily. “What time is it, anyway?”

“A little past nine-thirty in the evening,” Ryoken answers. “You had said you wanted to take a short break.”

Yusaku opens his eyes before saying, “The sun was still up when I said that, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Ryoken admits, looking briefly contrite before he adds, “I wanted to let you rest if you were tired, though. Next time I’ll ask if you want me to wake you up beforehand.”

“Okay,” Yusaku replies.

There’s a pause before Ryoken speaks again, as if it takes him a few moments to think up something else to say – or perhaps because he doesn’t know how to say it. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Yusaku answers bluntly. “Like my skin doesn’t fit my shape, I guess.”

He knows the response is rather vague, but he doesn’t have a better way of describing the residual sensation that something within him is imploding that’s left over from the nightmare, and that he’s trying to fill in the emptiness before it all collapses again. Ryoken just tilts his head slightly, though, and asks, “Too much or not enough?”

“Inside? Not enough,” Yusaku replies automatically, too worn out to even consider if perhaps the two of them are communicating different things using the same, imprecise words.

After a few beats, Ryoken offers his hand out and says, “I don’t know if it’ll help, but…”

Wordlessly, Yusaku takes his hand; Ryoken interlaces their fingers and places his other hand on top. His hands are pleasantly warm and solid and very much _real_ – Yusaku inhales deeply, counting to five before breathing out again, and he feels grounded afterwards, much more like himself and not the afterimage of a former self.

“Is it alright if I touch you a little more?” Ryoken asks. When he speaks so softly, almost all the contrast between his voice ten years ago and the current day disappears; in response, Yusaku can palpably sense his stability sharpen back into its normal focus. _I’m Fujiki Yusaku. I’m sixteen years old, and I’m in Kogami Ryoken’s house on Stardust Road, and he’s here with me. It’s safe here, I feel safe here. I_ am _safe here._

( _why am I?_ echoes through his mind still, but even now that question is too big for him to completely comprehend, let alone answer – but he thinks perhaps that’s a normal pain to experience – )

“Yeah,” Yusaku replies.

Ryoken slides one of his hands down to Yusaku’s wrist, holding his hand up gently and leaning in to press it to his forehead, as if he is about to swear an oath. “I want to take much better care of you than this,” he murmurs, and then lifts his head to kiss the back of Yusaku’s hand.

If it were anybody else, Yusaku thinks he’d probably be a little irritated to hear the words; he’s been functionally independent for far longer than any sixteen-year-old really should be because he decided that he wanted complete agency over himself. But both of them know there is no intent to demean in how far that they’re willing to go for each other – it’s for each of their own self-satisfaction that they’ll pull the other from the brink as many time as it’s needed. Thus, Yusaku is comfortable with the compatibility in their mutual selfishness.

 “Think about what you just said before you go and do anything questionably self-destructive in the near future,” Yusaku replies, tone wry, before he sits up and pulls at Ryoken’s hand to indicate that he wants Ryoken to sit down next to him.

Ryoken takes the cue, joining Yusaku on the sofa without letting go of his hand. “We’ll see about that,” he replies, and promptly cuts off the point where Yusaku has a reflexive call-out prepared by smoothly continuing onto asking, “There’s nothing else you want me to do for you?”

Yusaku curls his fingers inwards slightly, pressing his fingertips into the palm of Ryoken’s hand as he thinks about how to answer. “This much is enough,” he says, and then he leans into Ryoken’s side, resting his head onto Ryoken’s chest.

Even without saying more, Ryoken seems to understand – he lets go of Yusaku, but only so he can put his arm around Yusaku’s shoulder to keep him close, tucking his cheek against the crown of Yusaku’s head as he reaches across their laps to lay his other hand on top of Yusaku’s so that the spaces between their fingers overlaps neatly. Yusaku’s had dozens upon dozens of nightmares before, and he’s successfully pulled himself out of each one – but it seems easier to reclaim himself this time, with somebody else to help him affirm the fact that he’s still here, still aware and human, still fundamentally Fujiki Yusaku.

Though nobody can see it, Yusaku smiles regardless and says again: “This much is enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> I got a few requests for something along the lines of Ryoken comforting Yusaku after a nightmare about the Lost Incident and then my stupid brain went postmodern on it instead of just idk writing some cuddling. I'd like to do a more fluffy version of this at some point because I disappointed myself with the lack of it here...
> 
> Anyway, I hope that the way I wrote this fic (especially the first part) was able to balance a respectful portrayal with a sense of stylistic expression well, though ultimately I hope my intent to be serious and respectful of such experiences was more apparent. 
> 
> Stylistically, the only note I want to make is on the beginning of the fic — it starts off abruptly to try and emulate the sensation of having a real dream, where it rarely begins at a beginning and just kind of happens, especially when recollecting it later. Otherwise, the rest of it is just my fondness for postmodernism shining through, for whatever that's worth...


End file.
